The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

been found dead backstage.’
    ‘In what circumstances?’ I inquired.
    ‘Murder!’ Merriwick whispered, his eyes almost starting out of his head with horror at the word.
    ‘Have the police been informed?’ my old friend asked. ‘My name, by the way, is Sherlock Holmes.’
    ‘Mr Holmes? The great consulting detective?’ It was highly gratifying to hear the tone of astonished relief in the manager’s voice. ‘I have heard of you, sir. It is fortunate indeed that you were among the audience tonight. May I retain your services onbehalf of the management? Any adverse publicity could be disastrous for the Cambridge.’ Merriwick was almost gabbling in his excitement and anxiety. ‘The police, Mr Holmes? Yes, they should be on their way. I have sent the assistant-manager off in a cab to Scotland Yard. Only the best is good enough for the Cambridge. And now, if you care to follow me, gentlemen,’ he continued, leading the way from the foyer, ‘Dr Watson may view the body and you, Mr Holmes – and may I say again how relieved I am to have your assistance? – can make a preliminary investigation.’
    ‘Whose body is it, Mr Merriwick,’ I asked.
    ‘Didn’t I say, sir? Oh, dear, dear, dear! What a dreadful omission!’ Merriwick cried, rounding his eyes again with shock. ‘It’s Marguerite Rossignol, the French Nightingale. Top of the bill, too! The Cambridge will never live down the scandal. To think that she should be strangled backstage in her own dressing-room!’
    ‘Marguerite Rossignol!’ I exclaimed, the shock of it bringing me to a complete halt.
    Taking me by the arm, Holmes urged me on.
    ‘Come, Watson. Bear up, my dear fellow. We have work to do.’
    ‘But, Holmes, only a quarter of an hour ago that exquisite creature was alive and …’
    I broke off, unable to continue.
    ‘Pray remember your Horace,’ my old friend adjured me. ‘“Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam.”’ *
    Still dazed by the news, I followed as Merriwick led the way to the area behind the stage, down dusty passages, their bare brick walls and stone floors in shabby contrast to the plush and gilding of the front-of-house, and finally through a door into a large and dingy back region where the dressing-rooms were situated.
    It was crowded with people, stage-hands as well as performers,the artistes still wearing their costumes with wraps or dressing-gowns thrown over their shoulders, and all of them chattering like starlings. In the midst of this disorder, I have a dim recollection of seeing some iron stairs leading to a shadowy upper region and, immediately in front of us and a little distance away, the stage-door with a small cubby-hole beside it, not unlike a Punch and Judy booth, through the open partition of which a man in a cap and muffler had thrust his head. The next moment, Merriwick turned into another, shorter passage, facing the stage-doorkeeper’s little office, and, taking a key from his pocket, unlocked a door.
    ‘The scene of the crime,’ he whispered in a sepulchral voice, standing aside to let us enter.
    At first, I thought the room had been ransacked, it was in a state of such disarray. Clothes were scattered everywhere – on a shabby chaise-longue, over the top of a folding screen which occupied one corner, while garments of a more intimate nature dangled down from an improvised line slung between two hooks.
    To add to my initial bewilderment, the large looking-glass of a dressing-table faced us as we entered, in which I caught a glimpse of our reflections, our black evening clothes very sombre in the midst of all this colourful confusion.
    Still seated on a stool in front of this dressing-table but slumped across its surface, amid a litter of jars, spilt powder and sticks of grease-paint, lay the body of a woman with cropped, dark hair; not Marguerite Rossignol, I thought with a surge of relief, even though she was dressed in the same lavender silk gown which the French Nightingale had worn